


Bad Ideas

by prizewinningfruitcake



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, get at me, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 04:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prizewinningfruitcake/pseuds/prizewinningfruitcake
Summary: Isabela rationalizes. Merrill is adorable - in kind of a sexy way.





	Bad Ideas

They kissed. She kissed her, and _she_ kissed _her_. They kissed each other. Who’s to say who kissed who?

She didn’t kiss Merrill. _They_ kissed. It was a moment of weakness.

“So, am I to understand - you kissed her, but you… also didn’t?” Fenris asked and Isabela rolled her eyes.

“ _We_ kissed. It just happened.”

“But you- There was movement, was there not?”

“Yes, that’s typically how kissing works, Fenris.”

“Then which of you moved?”

“Both of us moved.”

He groaned and shook his head, caught up in unnecessary details. Trying to blame her, Isabela, for her own predicament, which she should have expected. He’s the last person anyone should consult on the subject of kissing.

Maybe he’s got the right idea after all, though, to not concern himself with any of that, not to kiss anyone. Right here and now, in this tiny room in this filthy tavern in this mistake of a city, Isabela swears never to kiss anyone ever again. It’s a bizarre thing anyway, putting your mouth on someone else’s, sloshing spit and probably bits of food and everything. Disgusting. Who even thought of that?

If Isabela could go back and reverse every kiss she’s ever had, she’d be better for it. More bad ones than good ones, that’s for certain, and some of the bad ones-

She’d be better for it.

Good kisses are a waste of time anyway. They’re just filler before you get to the real fun, a practice at fucking them that you can do in public, in the middle of the bar… smushed flat on the seat of a booth with her hands on you, and her body pinned underneath yours, and-

It was a moment of weakness. They were drunk. It was a bad idea. It may come as a surprise, but Isabela is full of those.

Fenris said she’d best be honest, and just tell her that. She needs someone else to ask advice from.

But damn it, the only other person she can talk to is _her_.

Point taken, though not happily.

There’s a knock at her door, and she knows who it is. She hopes she knows. It’s late, and it had better be her because anyone else visiting at this hour is bad news, and Isabela’s missed her while she’s been avoiding her.

“It’s me,” Merrill’s voice calls from the other side.

She’s got a shawl draped around her shoulders like an old lady. It works on her somehow, though; she looks sweet and delicate, like - well, like she is. She’s sweet and delicate and unassuming, a rare good person in this shit world.

“Come in, Kitten, before Corff sees you.”

She nods quickly, and her shoulders drop a little, like she’d been holding her breath. She wastes no time squatting in front of the fire.

“I think it might snow,” she says as she warms the backs of her hands. “It smells like it. Have you ever noticed how you can smell snow coming? I wonder why that is. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I suppose it could be that’s just what cold wind smells like and the snow is coincidental.”

“I… don’t know.” Isabela starts to sit back down on her bed, hesitates, and shuffles a couple steps looking for a normal-looking place to stand. “I’m usually occupied trying to get away from it.”

She looks up at her, looks her over. “You need a heavier coat.”

Merrill lives in a constant state of worry and huffing disapproval over Isabela’s warmth, or lack thereof, in the colder months.

“I don’t know why I’d bother when I can just go inside.”

Truthfully, she just doesn’t get very cold.

“That’s no good. You can’t just pass the whole winter in here. What would Hawke do?”

Isabela finally decides it’s too awkward to continue here towering over her, and retreats to sit down on her bed.

“I imagine he’d forget about me after a while.” She settles in, tosses her hair back. “Or maybe he’d just get sick of having bottles slung at him whenever he tried to collect me.”

“Like a dragon in her nest.” The firelight glints off her teeth in the dark, and she lets her shawl drop down below her shoulders. “You’d run out of bottles eventually.”

Isabela could point out that this is a tavern with a regular shipment of more bottles, but she doesn’t. Instead, she pats the spot next to her on the bed. It barely moves when Merrill sits.

“Can I join?” Merrill asks quietly after a while, “if you’re going to shut yourself up in here all winter?”

Just say it. Drop the metaphor, _I’m no good, you’ll be sorry, you already are if you think about it._ Don’t think about it. Don’t think-

She’s on her, kissing her, feeling her because she can and because she’s _weak, no good, no good._

Merrill gasps and holds onto her, holds on, a hand in her hair. She melts, soft as they lay back, legs parted and coming to wrap around her, then gripping, gripping, holding on.

She can barely move, held, gripped there, entwined. _Fuck_. All she can do is move with her and kiss her. Isabela has changed her stance on kissing. Kissing is good, kissing Merrill is good.

Snaking her arms around her, a hand behind her head, Isabela kisses, kisses everything, drawing soft sweet little sounds from her, _so cute, dammit Merrill_. Kissing her different places makes different sounds, a gasp when she sucks her bottom lip, a sigh at kisses on her jaw, a moan when she reaches her neck.

A flick of her tongue doesn’t produce any new sounds but she bucks underneath her and clenches around her, tight and unexpectedly strong, crushing. She’s being crushed and she doesn’t mind. She’ll die this way, crushed on top of a small soft elf. She’ll die if they stop.

She needs to get to her, inside her, now, and Merrill pants and parts for her hand between her legs. She works against the fabric of her leggings, breath hot against her mouth. She feels her, reaches for her, hands on bare skin under her clothes.

She feels her, _there_ , hot and slick, pushes inside, and now there’s no going back.

Merrill pulls her dress above her head in one fluid motion, uncharacteristically graceful. Like she’s been ready to do that. Her bare neck and chest and tits catch the light through the window, _fuck, Merrill, yes_.

She’s lovely, of course she is, and not shy at all. They’ve discussed this before; the Dalish don’t have the same barriers about sex as humans do, the same shame. They’ve talked about it, and Isabela wondered, couldn’t help but think about that.

It’s hot in here, humid. Sweat drips down her chest, and she needs to get her shirt off, her clothes, but her whole hand is engaged between Merrill’s legs - inside her, against her. She can’t stop.

She doesn’t stop. Merrill pants and rocks beneath her, and she presses, moving, bending to find her open mouth again, her tongue.

Merrill didn’t use her tongue much when they kissed the last time. Isabela wished she had.

They set a rhythm and she’s lost in it, in her fingers moving in her, deep, then pulling out to stroke all the way up, then all the way back down, in, faster. Merrill whines and her legs close tighter. Her arms do too, constricting, crushing as she comes. Isabela moans with her, into her mouth, her neck, moves with her, slows with her.

They still, panting, for a moment, but Isabela twitches back to life to pull her clothes off, her shirt, her trousers, her blasted socks - too many clothes - and Merrill kicks her leggings the rest of the way off, looking up at her the whole time she does.

“Bela,” she murmurs, smiling. Then she reaches out and touches her, all over, hands on her tits, her waist, her thighs, her ass, then back again. She does it again, and then again, and then pulls, positioning her so she’s straddling her head.

Isabela’s breath hitches, feeling what she’s about to do.

“Fuck,” she breathes, feeling what she does do, what she is doing, feeling her lips against her cunt, gentle and soft. Too soft.

“Merrill- _ah_ ,” she works to keep her hips still. “Such a tease.”

That’s all it takes. She relents, barely, licks her slowly, holding onto her thighs to keep her in place.

She pulls back and says brightly, “You taste good.”

So fucking cute. Such a fucking tease. Isabela threads fingers through her hair as she moves against her again, lapping harder, with determination.

She tries hard not to move, to keep herself still, so that her tongue can find her, can move against her like she needs. When she feels fingers touch, move inside her, she gasps and falters, bucking hard. Merrill makes a sound against her, and she feels it.

And that’s enough. She comes, hard, _hard_ , on her knees with both hands in Merrill’s hair.

She lays back, sweaty and naked, against her.

“Um,” Merrill starts after a moment, “Bela?”

Isabela doesn’t want to talk. She just wants to lie here together, naked and pressed against each other, for the rest of the night at least, if not the whole winter.

A moment of weakness, and then another. Pretty typical of her.

“Yes, Kitten?”

“That was - That was alright?”

Isabela laughs. “That was more than alright. That was… much more than alright.”

“Oh good. So you think that maybe, possibly… you might want to do it again?”

“I-” She almost shrugs it off, makes a joke. But she’s tired and there’s no sense in pretending. “I think that’s safe to say.”

She pulls the covers over them, and dreams about dragons and bad ideas and her.


End file.
